Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!

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Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.

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How beautiful the silent hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

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Youth comes but once a life time. Perhaps, but it remains strong in many for their entire lives.

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Taste the joy That springs from labor.

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There is no flock, however watched and tended, but one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside howsoe'er defended, but has one vacant chair.

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The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts

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Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

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Is this is a dream? O, if it be a dream, Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!

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For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

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A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

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The mind of the scholar, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armor should be somewhat bruised by rude encounters even, than hang forever rusting on the wall.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Wall Quotes , Knowledge Quotes

White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

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We are all architects of faith, ever living in these walls of time.

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Know how sublime a thing it is to suffer and be strong.

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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

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The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!

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O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let the river Linger to kiss thy feet! O flower of song, bloom on, and make forever The world more fair and sweet.

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Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!

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